The Last Collection Read Online Free Page B

Very good.”
    â€œI know a lot more,” Kerner said, feeling a sudden surge of enthusiasm.
    â€œIt’s enough, it’s enough,” the doctor grunted. “Don’t you feel better now?”
    â€œNo. I didn’t feel bad to begin with, at least not about that. I told you. Besides, you said you were tired of hearing about guys with that type of problem.”
    â€œThat’s true, I am tired of it. But my professional responsibilities compel me to deal with this problem, if and where it exists, no matter how aggravating and distasteful I find it. So then, Mr. Kerner, what is the length of your prick?”
    â€œPardon me?” Kerner’s jaw dropped.
    â€œYou heard me!”
    â€œYou’re not serious, Doctor, are you?”
    â€œCome on now, don’t play games, Mr. Kerner. This is serious business. I’m sure you’ve measured it several thousand times. Everyone has, you know.”
    â€œReally?” Kerner replied. “Have you?”
    â€œYes, once or twice,” the doctor replied matter-of-factly.
    â€œOnly once or twice? I thought you said everyone did it thousands of times?”
    â€œThat’s true, but I don’t include psychiatrists in the general statement. We tend to be less anxious about such things due to our deeper insight into ourselves. . . . In any case, when I said once or twice, I meant once or twice today.”
    Kerner squinted with disbelief and wiped the side of his face where the rain had wet him. He pressed his hand against his cheek for reassurance. He seemed to be losing touch with reality. The doctor’s talk and the strange room with its lagoon and rain and thunderclaps were making him dizzy. Again he felt an urge to weep but he forced it down.
    Maybe, just maybe, he thought, something good would come out of all this craziness. Or perhaps he was only grasping at straws. It seemed hopeless, utterly futile. This strange doctor was definitely making him frightened but his sickness made him even more afraid. Why couldn’t he verbalize it? Why was he so ashamed? He had kept it all to himself for six months. If he’d had one close friend, perhaps he would have been able to discuss it with him, but he had no close friends and no one that he trusted. Once again he tried to force himself to talk, but he couldn’t.
    Meanwhile, the doctor had gotten out of his chair and was walking towards the lagoon. He walked into the thatched hut and continued speaking from inside.
    â€œYes, everyone does it,” the doctor said. “It’s just that certain categories of professionals do it less than others. Some do it more. For instance, from my experience, architects do it by far the most of any group. From my experience, they measure on the average about every fifteen to twenty minutes.”
    The doctor came out of the hut still talking as though he were making a speech. “For example, I have one patient who, irrespective of where he might be at the time, whips out his pisser like clockwork every fifteen minutes just to see if it’s still there and to ascertain that it hasn’t shrunk during the preceding period of time. In the building where he lives, he’s known as the mad flasher. Many a time someone waiting for the elevator has been surprised when the elevator doors open to find him bent over his tool with a tape measure. But he’s not the exception. He’s more the rule. Another one cut out all his pants pockets so he could shove in a caliper every thirty seconds or so to see if the circumference was holding steady.” The doctor climbed back into his seat.
    Suddenly, almost as though he had no control over the words, Kerner shouted, “I’m addicted!”
    The doctor’s chair shot high into the air. “I knew it! I knew it!” he yelled, peering down at Kerner. “I knew there was something wrong with you the moment I saw you. ‘Here comes a real sicko,’ I said